D (29 page)

"Really and truly, doctor, you disappoint me. Do you think that it is enough to say 'substance' instead of 'ghost' to turn medi
eval nonsense into a scientific hypothesis? No, doctor. In my life I haven't faced anything that couldn't be explained rationally.”

"Six deaths in a row, monsieur."

"Each of which has a reasonable explanation! Eventually, what do you want from me? To leave? Jeannette tried to leave and that killed her. Perhaps I should bring a church repentance? Should I   sprinkle the house with holy water and put a garlic wreath on my neck? No, I did something better. I replaced locks and secured the doors and I have a weapon at my hand. If really there is someone behind all this, I will with great pleasure fire a bullet into this bastard."

"Whatever, monsieur, whatever; but I am still sure that here you are in danger."

"Bullshit, tomorrow new servants will arrive, and everything will go as it should."

"If I were you, at least I wouldn't spend tonight alone in the empty house."

"I am capable of protecting myself. If it is a ghost," Dubois grinned, "it can't cause me harm; and if it's a living man, I'll quickly make him a ghost."

By evening the weather worsened; the incoming autumn declared its rights. The cold wind tore wet leaves from trees and flung small raindrops against the windows. Dubois stayed late in his office with some papers; but business affairs didn't occupy his mind. Though he wouldn't admit it even to himself, fear was overtaking him. The thought that in this office the last count de Montreux committed suicide now disturbed the new owner of the manor; the understanding of his full loneliness in the empty and cold house oppressed him. It came to a point when, having caught movement out of the corner of his eye, he shuddered and grabbed for the gun and only in the next moment realized that he was frightened by his own shadow on a wall. Dubois swore. At the same time, an especially strong burst of wind blew; glasses shuddered, and somewhere in the house a shutter swung open with a bang. For several seconds Dubois sat motionless with his heart beating fast, listening attentively to the sounds of the night house, but he heard only wind howling in chimneys. Then he stood up and, with a pistol in one hand and a lamp in another, went to check the suspicious window.

He didn't find anything unusual there; obviously, the shut
ter had indeed been opened by the wind. Dubois closed it again and, without returning to the office, went to his bedroom. There he carefully locked the door with two turns of a key, engaged a latch, examined the window, put two loaded pistols on a little bedside cabinet and only after all that went to bed, having left the oil lamp lit. Dubois couldn't fall asleep for a long time, listening to the whining of the wind and rain noise beyond the window, but, at last, a heavy drowsiness possessed him...

About midnight the businessman suddenly opened his eyes as from a kick. The storm had ended; it was astonishingly quiet in the house. And in this silence, the remote creak of floor boards suddenly was heard. Dubois tried to convince himself that there was nothing unusual: in an old house something always squeaks and crackles. However, the sounds were too rhythmical and, seemingly, their source approached. In horror Dubois real
ized that he was hearing confident steps; someone strode through the house. Here creaked, opening, an office door; then it slammed–the stranger left there. Now the steps moved to the bedroom.

Dubois understood that it was necessary to take a pistol, but he could not move and lay in full helplessness. Steps stopped on the other side of the door. The new lock snapped, opening. Then the latch moved by itself. Dubois felt hair move on his head. The door silently opened. Behind it, there was nobody.

But the steps came nearer to the bed and stopped. Dubois smelled the disgusting stench of a decaying corpse. A cold whiff of air touched his face and at the next instant slippery ice-cold fingers seized the businessman's neck. Dubois wanted to cry out, but a spasm blocked his throat. He desperately, but unsuccessfully, tried to move his hands; his heart beat furiously, he suffocated...

Dubois was awakened by his own shout. Still in the power of his nightmare, he jumped up on the bed, swinging hands, and knocked the lamp down from the bedside cabinet. The lamp fell and broke; burning kerosene spread on the floor, and tongues of flame licked the window curtain and the bed sheet which hung to the floor. Dubois, at last, awoke completely. In three jumps he crossed the bedroom and, having pushed the latch aside, jerked the door handle. But the door, of course, didn't open, as the lock was locked on two turns and the key lay on the bedside cabinet. Having realized this fact, Dubois helplessly turned back: the cab
inet was already on fire. For some seconds the businessman helplessly looked around in search of any object which could help him, but then he understood that he had to snatch the key out of the flames barehanded. When he, at last, rushed to the cabinet, the fire reached the pistols lying there. A shot banged; a strong and hot kick in the breast threw Dubois back onto the locked door, and he slowly slipped to the floor. The flame with a cheerful crackle was devouring the room furniture.

"Yesterday in the suburb of L. there was a strong fire, as a result of which the family estate of counts de Montreux completely burned out. The last owner, the Parisian businessman Jacques Dubois, was the only victim of the fire. It is supposed that he died because of his own imprudence."

WINDY DAY IN WEST

The straight gray tape of the highway was rewinding un
der the Ford's wheels at 75 mph. The hot southern wind drove across the road clouds of dust and tumbleweed spheres similar to skeletons of balls. Pete Palmer had needed to close the driver's window that morning and since then the wind had only increased. A continuous haze hung over the yellow-orange desert. "The way things are going, I'll have to slow down," Pete thought. "Visibility is miserable even now." It was 3 PM; he had been en route for 74 hours and had left his car only to do the deed. He ate and slept right in the car.

"Hello, friends, Dan Daniels with you on the hour," soun
ded from the car radio. It was some local station. "What weather, huh? There hasn't been a scorcher like this for years. Well, the weatherman says this heat will last at least several days more. So we have to do the best we can. I like lying in a cool bath and sipping martinis with ice. Too bad my studio doesn't have a bath. Between you and me, I'm sitting here in my underpants only. Right now, I'm like the characters in the song you'll hear next–it's the hit of the month, 'Hot Guys Is What I Like!'"

"Moron," muttered Palmer and switched the radio off. The noise of the motor merged with the rustle of sand grains hitting the glass.

He finally noticed a figure on the roadside. He had nearly missed seeing it, not so much because of the dusty haze, but because he didn't expect to see anybody out here. He had passed the last town about an hour ago–if a gas station with a poster "Last Gas For 100 miles" could be called a town–and, according to the road map, the next populated place was no closer. Unless there was some nearby ranch not designated on the map? Anyway, the person was here and held out a hand with the thumb up, expressing an eager desire to leave.

Just a minute ago Pete hadn't considered picking up hitch
hikers. Certainly, this guy stuck in the middle of the desert in stifling heat and a dust storm could hardly be envied, but those were his problems. Nevertheless, Palmer eased off the accelerator, wanting to look at the hitchhiker before passing him by.

It happened to be a girl. The wind fanned her short fair hair and billowed her loose T-shirt over worn jeans. A small back
pack stood near her feet. On her T-shirt there was the question "ARE YOU SURE?" She wasn't a beauty. Otherwise Pete would have definitely passed her by.

The Ford rolled briefly while the driver's foot hovered between the gas and brake pedals–and, at last, Palmer chose the latter. "Yes," he said. "I am sure."

The girl, still not believing to her luck, hastily ran up to the car. She didn't ask anything, just simply opened the door, dusted the sand off her jeans, and plopped into the passenger seat.

"Thanks," she said.

"Where are you going?" inquired Pete, turning right and examining her more attentively.

"Ahead!"

"Means you're going my way," Palmer nodded, pressing the accelerator again.

The girl was silent and Pete thought that didn't suit him. He could keep silent alone, which he actually did for the last 74 hours.

"Rather odd that nowadays a girl isn't afraid to get in a stranger's car this way," he said. He dissembled a bit, as the appearance of his passenger actually didn't make her an especially desired victim for a rapist. She was short–which could by itself interest the maniacs who craved subtlety and defenselessness; however her build was not subtle, but, on the contrary, too corpulent, with some excessive flab around her waist, while she still could not be called fat. And at the same time her breasts weren't very well developed. Her round face was also quite ordinary and, besides, freckled. All in all, not very pretty. However, who knows what can get in the mind of a psychopath...

“
You don't look like a maniac, mister," the girl said.

"As if you ever saw any," Palmer grinned.

"Only in the movies," she admitted. "Though my dear daddy can be worse than any maniac when he gets drunk–and the last time he was sober was three weeks before Christmas. Well, an explanation number two–I believe in destiny."

"Believing in destiny isn't worse than believing in any
thing else," Palmer shrugged his shoulders. "It's possible never to get in a stranger's car during your whole life and then to slip and die in your own bathtub, isn't it?"

"Exactly."

"But just the same I wouldn't let my daughter hitchhike, not even to the other end of town. These days–not for a moment. My God, I never was a goody two-shoes myself. I lost my virginity when I was 17 and my girlfriend was the same age. But at least we really thought we would get married. When I was young, if a man smiled at a kid and started talking to him, everyone around melted–look how he likes children! And in most cases, that's how it really was. And now in the same situation, the kid is immediately whisked away, because everyone thinks this guy is a fucking pedophile. And goddamn it, in most cases they're right again!"

"Do you like children?" the girl asked.

"No," shortly answered Pete.

"But what about your daughter?"

"I don't have a daughter."

She became silent again.

"How did you get out here?" Palmer asked. "In the middle of the desert?"

"A guy who gave me a lift put me out of his car here."

"Did he molest you?"

"No, he didn't. But he was an asshole. I don't know why I got in his car—I guess I just got sick and tired of waiting for a ride in this heat. He stank of sweat and smoked cheap cigars. At first we didn't talk at all–he listened to country music."

"He had thick hairy fingers and a cowboy hat. And he drives a shabby blue pickup," added Pete.

"You saw him?" the girl was surprised.

"No, but if you see one guy like that, you've seen them all."

"Well, that's what he's like, only the pickup is gray instead of blue. So, he listened to country, and sometimes he even tried to sing along. And then the music ended and the news came on. It was about that Dorothy Springles, the one who got her own hus
band locked up for rape."

"I know."

"Today the court said 'no' to his appeal or something. And this guy started yelling about 'underfucked feminist bitches' and stuff. And he finished by saying that the dumbest thing Americans ever did was to allow cunts and niggers to vote. It looked like he even believed that it happened simultaneously. Well, and... I spoke up. To tell the truth, I was way more polite than he deserved," the girl glanced fearfully at Palmer, having thought too late that he could agree with the pickup driver. But Palmer didn't express an opinion in any way. "Well, then he stopped the car and told me to get the fuck out. That I was a stinking bitch and so on. I wanted to tell him which of the two of us was stinking, but I didn't dare. He was at least three times bigger than me and there wasn't anyone around for 50 miles."

"How long did you wait there?"

"Well, probably, more than an hour. A little more and I would be a dried up mummy filled with sand."

"So you decided, just in case, to keep mum with me."

"Exactly."

"All problems between people come from two causes," Palmer said. "First, they don't tell each other the truth. And second, they do tell it."

The girl looked at him respectfully.

"Are you a writer?"

"Nope, I'm not a writer. And not a maniac. And I don't drop girls on the road in the middle of a desert–at least, not yet.”

"Glad to hear it."

"By the way, I didn't get your name."

"Bettie."

"Not very pretty," slipped off Palmer's tongue.

"What?" she seemed more surprised than offended.

"Sorry. Pay no attention. I've been having a bad time recently.” ("In the last 74 hours," he added mentally. "Or in the last 50 years–depending on how you look at it.")